Nowhere Man
by Medusa -the writer
Summary: Dean accepts "Mr. Adler's" bonus at the end of the episode forcing Zachariah to manipulate the Winchesters a little  or a lot  more to teach Dean his lesson.  Unfortunately Dean's lesson becomes Sam's punishment. Tag to Episode 4.17 It's a Terrible Life.
1. Chapter 1

Nowhere Man  
By Medusa

Tag to Episode 4.17 It's A Terrible Life

Summary: Dean accepts "Mr. Adler's" bonus at the end of the episode forcing Zachariah to manipulate the Winchesters a little (or a lot) more to teach Dean his lesson. Unfortunately Dean's lesson becomes Sam's punishment.

Written for the Summer of Sam Love 2010 Challenge. A HUGE thank you to the wonderful Sendintheklowns for the beta.

Word Count: 20,000 – give or take.

Original publish date: 10 September, 2010.

Author's notes are at the end.

"He's a real nowhere man,  
Sitting in his Nowhere Land,  
Making all his nowhere plans  
for nobody."

...

"He's as blind as he can be,  
Just sees what he wants to see,  
Nowhere Man can you see me at all?"

- Nowhere Man from The Beatles "Rubber Soul" album.

Part One

Dean Smith sat working in his office, forcing the events of the previous day out of his head. He was trying to forget the ludicrous suggestions that Sam Wesson had made. It was crazy talk, brothers in arms fighting evil on the road, with no steady income, no health insurance, no address! Crazy. He ran a weary hand over his eyes, brushing the whole experience to the back of his mind.

There was a knock on his office door.

"Got a minute?" Mr. Adler, his boss, asked.

"Sure, of course" Dean replied.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" Adler came in and shut the door behind him.

"Uh, great." The question seemed a little out of left field.

"You look a little tired. Been working hard, I gather."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah," he breathed, a little self-consciously.

"Don't be modest," Adler dismissed. "I hear everything, and I'm pleased with what I'm hearing." He sat in the chair in front of Dean's desk, the same chair Sam had sat in only the day before. "That's why it's important to me that you're happy," he continued, pulling a pen from his pocket and reaching for a post-it note in the container on the desk.

Adler wrote a figure on the note and passed it across to Dean.

"How's that for a bonus?"

Dean picked up the slip of paper and looked at it. A puzzled frown transformed into astonishment. "That's very generous."

"Purely selfish. Just wanna make sure you're not going anywhere," Adler responded.

"Wow. You sure?"

"Positive. You are Sandover material, son. You'll go far, carving your own way."

"Thanks. I try."

"I see big things in your future. Maybe even Senior VP, Eastern Great Lakes Division." Adler continued, proudly as Dean shifted in his seat, pleased to be on the receiving end of such high praise. "Don't get me wrong, you'll have to work for it – 7 days a week, lunch at your desk, but in eight to ten short years, that could be you."

Dean wasn't sure what to say. That was a lot to take in and he huffed a sigh. "Uh, wow, thank you. Thank you, sir, but…"

Dean hesitated. He considered again what Sam had said to him about taking off and fighting ghosts. He looked at the figure on the note in front of him again, studying the four-figure sum. He took a deep breath, tried to get the words right in his head before saying them. This was his whole future being offered on a silver platter. This was a hard decision, an offer he should consider seriously. Dean felt torn. Was he ready to accept what Sam had said? It sounded crazy, could any of it be true? He looked back at Mr. Adler who was waiting expectantly. He shook his head and let common sense ground him.

"But?" Adler prompted, keenly watching Dean.

Dean smiled, mind made up. "Doesn't matter, it's not important. I'm honored that you have such confidence in me. I'll try to not let you down."

Mr. Adler, the corporate executive, sat with a frozen smile on his face for a moment. Zachariah, the angel currently occupying Adler's body, silently sighed with exasperation.

"Well, that's settled, then. Glad to have you aboard!" Adler's smile was more like a grimace as he stood to leave. "Oh, by the way, there's a couple of policemen waiting to see you. Something about the break-in and vandalism that happened last night? Apparently you were here working late. They want to know if you saw or heard anything."

Dean felt a cold shiver and he frowned. Oh God. What he and Sam had done the night before… this was going to end his career. Adler would take back everything he'd just promised and throw him out in the street. What could he say about last night that could sound anything but crazy?

Before he had a chance to form an answer, Mr. Adler reached across and shook his hand. There was a slight tingle that vibrated through him, and calmness settled inside him. Dean's brow smoothed out and he smiled, all memory of the night before fading like waking from a dream.

"Happy to answer any questions I can, but was here in the office all evening and I didn't see or hear anything until I left and the security guys were talking about it. I heard there was an accident with the elevator, too."

"Terrible business. We'll talk again later, Dean."

Adler left and a couple of minutes later two uniformed cops came in. They asked if he'd seen or heard anything out of place, what time he'd left, and agreed that the accident with the elevator which killed the security guard was awful but they were investigating that along with the vandalism on the 22nd floor, and a break in on the 14th floor in the Tech store room.

Then one of the cops asked if he knew Sam Wesson.

Dean flinched. Yes, he knew Sam. The guy worked in tech support. He'd run into him in the elevator a couple of times. Did he know him well? No. What had they talked about? Dean flushed a little, embarrassed, and said at first he thought that Sam had tried to make a pass at him. Then Sam had asked him if he believed in ghosts. He'd given a little laugh at that answer. Had he spent time with Sam the night before? Hardly, he'd answered, he'd been here in his office working. They could check his computer log if they liked. He asked why all the questions about Sam.

"We have Sam Wesson in custody. CC footage has him with the security guard just before the accident. We believe the guard found him ransacking the store room and was taking him down to the security office when the elevator broke down. We don't know if he was involved in the guard's death yet. Apparently he came into work this morning but then quit and went a little postal."

"What?" Dean exclaimed.

"Yeah," the cop continued. "Took a crow bar to his telephone and scared everyone in Tech Support half to death. Then he stormed out. Security stopped him and called us. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Smith. If there's anything else we think of, we may be back."

"Not at all, officer, anything I can do to help." Dean stood and shook their hands before they left.

As he sat back down, he scrubbed a hand down his face. _Wow, goes to show you that you just don't know who you have working near you every day,_ he thought.

Dean scooped up the telephone receiver and dialed a number on impulse, something else niggling at the back of his mind, something he felt he needed to do to settle himself down. It answered after three rings.

"Mom? Hi, it's me. … No, nothing's wrong. Just thought I hadn't called in a while. How's dad? … And Jo? … That's great. Thanksgiving? I dunno yet, mom. I'll try to make it home, but work's just a killer right now…"

The interrogation room was dingy and smelled faintly of stale sweat and something unidentifiable. The mirrored panel on the opposite wall separated this room from the observation chamber, Sam knew. He was probably being watched constantly as he waited, although what they would be watching for he had no idea.

Sam shifted in his uncomfortable chair. He'd been left sitting there for over half an hour. So far he hadn't been charged with anything but it was obvious that he was considered something of a threat because they'd left him with his wrists in handcuffs that were attached to the bolted-down table. He sighed, leaned forward and rested his head tiredly in the crook of one arm where it lay awkwardly across the table. He hadn't slept at all the night before. The Adrenaline rush from taking on Sandover's ghost had taken a long time to wear off. Then he'd lain awake for the rest of the night thinking about his conversation with Dean. He'd thought Dean could feel the same connection that he did, that same pull on his senses, that being _here_ felt all wrong. That maybe his dreams were real and hunting together was what they were supposed to be doing instead of living this cookie-cutter life that felt so alien.

And it seemed that things just got better and better. He supposed he had no one to blame but himself for landing in this predicament. He'd lost his temper, unable to bottle up the frustration he was feeling over not being able to get things right in his head, and that he couldn't seem to get Dean to fully understand. He knew he didn't belong in this life, but couldn't work out exactly where he did belong. It teased at the edges of his mind, invading his dreams, confusing him. And it really worried him that he couldn't seem to remember much of anything of his life before the last three weeks, except for vague impressions and fleeting memories.

The door opened and Sam dragged himself upright. A man in an ill-fitting suit came in, dropped a file on the table and sat down. Sam sat passively, waiting for the other man to start talking.

"Sam Wesson."

It wasn't a question, so Sam didn't respond.

"I'm Detective O'Brien. I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Okay."

"You've been employed at Sandover Bridge and Iron for just on three weeks."

Still not really a question but Sam shrugged anyway, nodding.

"Can you explain to me, Sam, what you were doing there last night after hours?"

Sam blinked in surprise. "Last night?" he squeaked. He hadn't expected that question; he thought that he was here because of his major hissy fit this morning.

"Yeah, last night. Security at Sandover has given us CCTV footage of you destroying valuable property on the 22nd floor of the Sandover building. There's also the matter of some damaged equipment in one of the store rooms on the 14th floor, footage of you being escorted from the 14th floor by a security guard just before that same guard was killed in an elevator accident."

Sam shuddered at the memory of the guard being cut in two by the falling elevator car, and of getting sprayed with his blood.

"Well, Sam?" The other man prompted.

"I, uh… I don't think you'd believe me if I told you." Not even with the camera recording. Would a ghost even show up? Maybe, but it would be totally unbelievable without the evidence. And Dean was there, he'd have Sam's back, if only they could work out a story together. Sam felt it wouldn't be the first time.

"Try me. What were you doing in that store room?"

Sam cleared his throat, not knowing how to explain it. Best not to then. "I was looking for something."

"What?"

He shook his head and spoke softly, staring at his hands. "Doesn't matter."

O'Brien cocked an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with the answer but realizing he wasn't getting any more. "What can you tell me about the security guard's death?"

Sam paled, and swallowed thickly. He could still feel the blood on him. "That was… um, that was just awful. He reached in, and… I tried to stop him. I tried." Sad eyes silently pleaded to stop talking about it.

"Okay." O'Brien changed tack, perhaps not entirely satisfied with the answer but moving on. "What about the damage on the 22nd floor?"

Sam shifted nervously, picked at a cuticle on his thumb and avoided O'Brien's intense gaze. He shook his head again. He couldn't answer. It would just sound nuts.

"You're not doin' yourself any favors here, kid. Tell me the truth."

The truth. Riiight.

"You wouldn't understand."

Another sigh from O'Brien as he sat back and folded his arms, giving the impression he would sit there until Sam gave him some kind of explanation.

Out of habit Sam tried to raise his hands to swipe back his long bangs, the movement thwarted by the handcuffs.

"Look, I know it sounds crazy, but we had to burn the gloves that belonged to P.T. Sandover. I just can't tell you why."

"Uh huh. And who is 'we'?"

"Me and Dean. If you ask him, he'll tell you what happened. Then you'll believe me."

The detective uncapped the pen he'd been fiddling with and opened the file. "Dean?"

"Dean Smith. He's the Director of Sales and Marketing at Sandover."

O'Brien scribbled a note in the file. "Alright. I'll see what Mr. Smith has to say. You want to tell me why you took a crowbar to your desk this morning?"

Sam sighed again, "I don't know. I was… kinda frustrated." He pulled a face, wincing at how lame that sounded. "That was probably a mistake."

"That's an understatement," O'Brien answered. "Okay, we'll check your story and we need to talk some more to Sandover management to see whether they want to press charges." The cop stood up to leave.

Sam brightened up for the first time since security had jumped on him earlier that morning as he'd stormed out of the Sandover building. They'd held him until the police arrived. He'd then been handcuffed and shoved him into the back of the squad car before being driven to the police station and dumped here in this room.

"I'm free to go?" he asked hopefully.

"Not yet. Someone will be along in a minute or two to take you down to the holding cells. We'll check this all out and let you know what happens next."

Russell O'Brien juggled a half dozen files, a cup of coffee and a paper bag containing a Swiss cheese on rye sandwich as he sat down at his desk. It was well over an hour since he'd talked with Sam Wesson and the first opportunity he had to sit down and review what the uniformed guys had brought back from their visit to Dean Smith at Sandover.

The incoming email alert was flashing madly on the computer screen. O'Brien typed in his password to read his email. He read the notes left on his desk by the uniforms as he waited for his email to load. He snorted a little, not really surprised that Dean Smith had not said anything to verify the things that Sam Wesson had told him. The CCTV footage report from Sandover security had pretty much already told the story that Sam was alone when he went on his little rampage.

O'Brien scrolled down through the two dozen email messages he had, stopping to fully open the one that caught his eye. It was the response to his search request on Sam Wesson from the central law enforcement database.

_Name: Samuel Wesson_

_DOB: 02 May, 1983_

_Place of Birth: Lawrence, Kansas_

_Parents: John Wesson (deceased June 2006), Mary Wesson (deceased November 1983)_

_Siblings: Dean Wesson (deceased February 2006) – see St Louis MO PD report – suspect in 2 murders, 1 attempted murder, case file still open._

_Marital Status: Single - _

_Fiancée Jessica Moore (deceased November 2005)_

_Fiancée Madison Owens (deceased July 2008)_

_Criminal record: No convictions. _

_Suspect (arson/murder/manslaughter) in the death of Jessica Lee Moore, no charges laid, ruled accidental death. November 2005._

_Suspect (murder/manslaughter) in the shooting death of Madison Owens, no charges laid, unsolved file open. July 2008._

_Other related: See UCSF Medical Center Psychiatric Unit record of admission, Dr. David Grace, August 2008. _

Under normal circumstances medical or psychiatric records didn't get attached to this kind of report unless they were considered relevant. O'Brien knew he'd have to check this out further. He also noted that the poor guy had lost three of his family including his first fiancée in less than an 18 month period, then lost another fiancée less than a year ago. No wonder the guy had a psychiatric record, and maybe those deaths needed a closer look because here he was just a short time later with another trail of dead bodies surrounding him. He was either the unluckiest son of a bitch to walk the earth or a very clever killer.

O'Brien picked up the phone and dialed the number he'd looked up for the University of California, San Francisco, Medical Center.

The file on Sam Wesson was getting progressively thicker. A lot thicker than any normal misdemeanor property damage file had a right to be. And the profile of the young man currently cooling his heels in the holding cells downstairs was revealing a very troubled history.

The deeper O'Brien dug, the less he liked what he found.

According to the St Louis PD file, Sam's brother had been bad news – a cold-blooded killer. Looking further back into the family history and using a few "unofficial" contacts, O'Brien also discovered that there were numerous CPS reports, dating from the late eighties until 2001 across several states, detailing what looked like a history of suspected abuse or neglect, although never proven because the small family always moved on before any follow-through could be done. It seemed that what little there was known about John Wesson painted him as an obsessed, overbearing man who raised his sons as if they were in the military rather than just kids. Following the suspected arson death of his wife (another possible murder?) when Sam was just six months old, Wesson senior had hit the road and the bottle, never settling in any place for more than a few months. And it seemed like a trail of death followed the family wherever they went. John Wesson's name came up a number of times in the investigative reports of deaths across the country.

Sam had escaped his family's clutches to go to college on a full scholarship, with another full ride to continue on to study law, but didn't graduate as planned. After the death of his first fiancée in 2005, he dropped out and went road tripping with his brother until St Louis. After the brother's death, he went back to college and studied computer science, graduating with honors in June 2007. He landed a Silicon Valley job, and became engaged to Madison Owens, a PA to a corporate lawyer in San Francisco. He'd suffered a breakdown a month after Madison's death, for which SFPD had Sam listed as the prime suspect initially, and was hospitalized for three months. SFPD could never prove any connection to the murder of Ms. Owens, but Sam was still on their radar as a suspect.

After being released from the psych ward, he had gone back to work, still seeing his psychiatrist regularly on an outpatient basis until he abruptly left San Francisco a month ago and moved to Chicago and came to work at Sandover. _Just maybe the guy had been cut loose a little too soon, _O'Brien thought.

Sam's doctor at UCSFMC had been of the opinion that three more deaths in just a few days might be too much for Sam to handle and might be the reason he'd apparently had another meltdown. It was suggested that Sam might be a danger to himself and it might be best to have him re-evaluated, since it appeared likely that Sam was off his meds, and having missed his last two appointments at the clinic after going AWOL. Dr. Grace had a contact at St. Elizabeth's in Chicago and, if Sam was willing, he could arrange for Sam to be admitted there.

It was getting late in the day. O'Brien still needed to call Mr. Adler at Sandover and explain the situation. Maybe he'd be lenient and not press charges if Sam was getting some help. Then he needed to get a hearing scheduled, which meant calling in counsel for Sam and getting one of the clerks in the DA's office off their butts to get things moving. O'Brien didn't think it would be in Sam's best interest to spend the night in Holding, and he certainly couldn't be cut loose if things were as bad as Dr. Grace thought they might be.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

"Wesson." The cop at the door to the holding cell called out.

Sam uncurled himself from the corner of the bench he'd wedged himself into. He avoided making eye contact with the other dozen or so occupants of the cell, even as they continued to stare at him. It had been unnerving, sitting in that cell practically all day in the company of some pretty scary looking guys. Sometimes his height and build intimidated people, and so he'd managed to shrink himself into a quiet corner and pretty much ignore them for the most part, with the aim of avoiding a confrontation, although he'd been sure several times that one or two of them had been on the verge of challenging him. Being locked up scared the crap out of him.

He was led out of the holding area and back to an interview room. This time there were no handcuffs. Sam folded his hands on the table and nervously twiddled his thumbs. He was expecting O'Brien again and was a little surprised when an older woman, dressed in an immaculate pantsuit and carrying a briefcase, entered the room. She waved him down when he started to automatically stand, showing the good manners ingrained in him.

"Mr. Wesson, I'm Alecia Zuckerman from the Public Defender's office."

Sam cleared his throat nervously. "I didn't ask for a lawyer."

"No sir, you didn't, but it's in your best interests to have some kind of legal representation. I don't have a lot of time, Mr. Wesson, you have a hearing in about 90 minutes."

He shouldn't have been surprised, really. "So, what are they charging me with?" he asked with a sigh.

"Breaking and Entering, Unlawful damage to property. That's just for starters. The police are still looking into the death of the security guard. Sandover may drop the charges as long as you undergo voluntary psychiatric evaluation."

"What?" Sam exclaimed, jerking back in his seat. "Psychiatric ev…"

The lawyer carried on, not even acknowledging him. "The hearing is a formality, really. You have the option of agreeing to voluntary committal for 72 hours, otherwise it can be mandated. Given your past history, Mr. Wesson, I'd recommend agreeing to voluntary."

Sam's confusion was plainly written on his face. Past history? What past history? He couldn't for the life of him remember much past the last few weeks, except for the few scant details he'd told Dean the night before.

"I don't understand," he admitted.

"It's quite simple, really," the lady lawyer explained, pulling a sheaf of papers from her briefcase and sorting through them before pushing a couple of them over in front of him. "You accept voluntary evaluation on a 72 hour hold and the criminal charges will probably get dropped. You'll also need to sign these papers giving permission for St. Elizabeth's to be sent your previous psychiatric history from UCSF Medical Centre. Your doctor there is prepared to be very helpful."

"I'm sorry, my _previous_ psychiatric history?" Sam sputtered. "I don't _have a previous history._ I…" He searched his mind frantically to remember anything useful prior to the last few weeks, and it scared him that he was coming up blank. He remembered the nightmares he'd been having but not much else. It felt like a vast hollow pit had opened up inside him. He felt sick.

"Mr. Wesson?" His lawyer's voice brought his attention back. "Please. Sign the papers. It'll be so much easier on you."

Easier? On him, or on her? Slowly Sam reached for the papers and read them. The voluntary committal was pretty straightforward. If he signed he agreed to being held a minimum of 72 hours for appraisal. That didn't necessarily mean they'd let him go after that. The second form shocked him the most. It contained a name he didn't recognize as a doctor who had supposedly been treating him for the last six months, and showed his release from a UCSFMC psychiatric ward dated three months ago.

No no no nonono. That couldn't be right. His dreams had showed him fighting evil things with Dean at his side. _That_ felt real. Dean. He needed to talk to Dean. He'd remember. He pushed the papers back across the table, unsigned.

"This has got to be a mistake," Sam mumbled around the tightness in his throat, "that's not me." _It can't be_, he thought.

"According to Dr. Grace in San Francisco it is you. He's worried that you aren't taking your medication and might be having a relapse."

A relapse of what? He scanned the papers again and didn't believe what he read. Severe depression, psychotic breaks, _schizophrenia?_

"I need to talk to Dean."

Ms. Zuckerman had been watching him intently as he'd read through the papers. "Who's Dean? A relative?" The only Dean she'd seen listed was his dead brother, and no other relatives were noted. "A friend?"

Sam nodded. "He works at Sandover. Dean Smith. I need to talk to him before I sign anything."

He was clutching at straws but felt sure that talking to Dean would straighten all this out. Dean had to have made some sense out of the things they'd talked about last night by now. He'd talk to the cops, tell them this was all a big mistake. Sam fought down his rising panic. It wouldn't help his case if he lost it again.

Zuckerman glanced at her watch. Seventy-five minutes until they had to be in court, which meant that Sam would need to be transferred to the courthouse pretty much immediately, and she still had two more clients to see before she could get over there herself.

"There isn't any time for you to talk to him now. You're scheduled in court in just over an hour."

Sam shook his head, stubbornly folding his arms. He had to talk to Dean before this whole mess got worse.

She sighed. "Look, if you sign those," she indicated the papers, "I promise I'll talk to him and try to get him to come and see you." Catching Sam's negative head shake, she added, "If you don't sign them the Judge will more than likely rule an Involuntary hold, given the recommendation of your last doctor, and that will make it harder for anyone to get in to see you."

Oh God, he was so screwed. He could feel a lump forming in his throat and his eyes start to sting. This wasn't happening. It felt all wrong yet all the evidence was stacking up to prove that it wasn't wrong. He didn't know what to do. He threw Alecia a pleading look, but felt instinctively that it should be Dean who was there to help him.

"It'll be alright, Sam," she said softly, using his given name for the first time, pushing the papers back in his direction.

He didn't have a choice, really, not if he wanted to see Dean anytime soon. With great reluctance, Sam unfolded his arms and reached for the pen on the table. He signed the papers with a shaking hand and an even bigger sinking feeling in his stomach.

It was after seven o'clock, and dark outside by the time Sam was locked inside his small room at St. Elizabeth's.

The day had gone from bad to worse as it had progressed, and Sam would have liked to say it was the worst day of his life, but since he couldn't seem to recall much of anything beyond the last three weeks he couldn't be sure that was true. And that scared him.

After his lawyer had left, Sam had been taken to the processing area, handcuffed again and then taken outside to a waiting van which had transported him the few short blocks to County Court. He'd then sat in another holding room until his name was called and he was taken into the courtroom. Ms. Zuckerman had met him there and true to what she'd described, the hearing was short and little more than a formality to rubber stamp the paperwork he'd signed, along with the paperwork from the DA's office stating that prosecution would remain pending as long as Sam agreed to undergo assessment and any necessary treatment. A new court date to go over the evaluation findings was set for later in the week, and Sam had been led back to the holding area to await transfer to the hospital.

Things really started to feel surreal once Sam arrived at the hospital.

St. Elizabeth's was solely a psychiatric facility so there was none of the usual bustle of an ER or patients needing urgent care. Sam had been led inside to an examination room, checked by a physician to ensure he was relatively healthy, had blood and urine samples taken and given a set of patient scrubs to change into. Sam's anxiety was palpable throughout the whole process and before being ushered up to the fifth floor the admitting doctor had insisted on giving him a shot of Valium, which Sam had tried to refuse. It seemed that although his presence here was considered voluntary, his cooperation was mandatory. Which meant following doctors' orders and taking any medication deemed necessary to help him stay calm. He supposed he should have been grateful when the doctor had told him they'd wait and see before giving him any of the meds prescribed previously by Dr. Grace.

Sam was then taken into a secure wing which had a sign outside proclaiming it to be Observation Ward 5 East. The buzz and click of the door being closed and locked behind him had Sam breathing hard and fighting down a sense of panic even as he felt the effects of the Valium taking hold.

The nurse escorting him, along with a burly orderly named William, had asked him if he was okay to which he had given a curt nod as he did his best to resist the urge to turn tail and run.

They had walked past several doorways which the nurse, Leah, explained were consultation rooms and visiting rooms to a glassed-in area that was the nurses' station. They had stopped there and he had been given a folder of printed information – the rules and schedules that governed day-to-day life inside these walls, and a basic toiletries pack (sans razor) then led into the room he now stood in.

Leah had asked him if he was hungry, explaining that meal time was finished but she could rustle up a sandwich if he wanted something. Sam declined even though he hadn't eaten anything in over 24 hours. He didn't think he could stomach anything at this point.

He turned full circle, taking stock of the small room.

There was the door he'd come in through, locked on the outside and with a reinforced glass observation window set in it. There were plain unadorned walls with a small window in the one opposite the door, again with reinforced glass, and a small cubicle in the corner with a toilet and wash basin. The mirror above the basin was made of polished stainless steel, and there was no door on the cubicle. He guessed the showers were communal. The only furniture was a steel-framed single bed that would undoubtedly prove to be too short for his 6 foot 4 height, a bedside cabinet, a desk and a chair. And a CCTV camera equipped with a wide-angle lens up in the corner of the ceiling, monitoring his every move.

Sam put the folder and plastic Ziploc pack down on the desk, and went over to stare out the grimy window. Out there was Dean, and out there lay the answers to who he really was. Because this… this _couldn't_ be real. It couldn't. Sam sniffed back the threatening tears as he watched the outside world carry on around him. He felt so alone, and absolutely terrified.

He was still standing there staring out the window some time later when Leah came back.

"Time for bed, Sam. Lights out in ten minutes."

He didn't respond or even acknowledge her presence, but heard her sigh softly behind him.

"Sam, is everything alright?" When he still didn't answer, she spoke a little firmer. "Sam. You need to look at me and answer, please."

That was probably one of the rules that he hadn't even bothered to read yet. Sam turned his head and made eye contact.

"I'm fine, thank you." And he tried to turn his attention back to the window.

"I want you to take a seat please, Sam. I need to check your vitals before bed, and give you some more Valium."

Sam sat obediently and allowed Leah to wind the blood pressure cuff around his bicep, take his temperature and check his pulse.

"You sure you're not feeling a little anxious, Sam? Your pulse is a little fast," she asked as she tore open an alcohol wipe and uncapped the syringe.

"Being in here's enough to make anyone anxious, don't you think?" he asked. "Please, I don't want any more Valium. I don't need it."

"It'll help you sleep, keep you relaxed until the doctor sees you in the morning."

Ignoring his quiet plea she quickly wiped the alcohol pad over his skin on his upper arm and sank the needle in. Sam flinched as the needle bit home, but he didn't pull away.

"Now," Leah held out the toiletry bag. "How about you finish getting ready for bed and then climb in under the covers? I'll wait right here."

Knowing he had no choice, Sam took the bag and went into the washroom cubicle to clean his teeth. When he was finished and came back out Leah had pulled back the bed covers for him. He didn't want to go to bed, or go to sleep, but the Valium must have been a stronger dose and he could feel the lethargy already creeping into his muscles. He reluctantly climbed under the covers and rolled on to his side, curling up to fit as comfortably as possible in the bed. He heard Leah leave the room and a few minutes later the light went out.

Sam fought hard not to fall asleep but his body betrayed him and he sank down into oblivion. He slept, but it was not a peaceful sleep. Snatches of chasing evil things with Dean at his side continued to invade his dreams, terrible monsters, vampires, ghosts. He was killing them all. And Dean was there. They'd be driving in this sleek black classic of a car down endless highways, laughing together. Brothers in arms. Just… Brothers.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

Dean was concentrating hard on an email he was composing. His phone rang, and he turned his attention away from the computer screen. He tapped the Bluetooth device nestled in his ear and greeted his caller.

"_Mr. Smith? My name is Alecia Zuckerman. I'm Sam Wesson's lawyer?"_ The voice on the other end of the call sounded hesitant, apologetic almost.

He sighed inwardly. Although he hadn't lost sleep over it, he had briefly wondered how the kid had faired after what the cops had told him the previous day. If he had a lawyer he was obviously in some trouble, although surely that wasn't really anything to do with him.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Zuckerman? I already talked to the police yesterday."

"_Yes, sir, I know. Sam asked me to call you. To ask if you'd go see him."_

Go see him? What the hell for? He said as much.

"_Mr. Smith…" _Alecia hesitated, not sure how or even if she should be asking this of him_, "Sam needs a friend right now. Would you please consider seeing him?"_

"Look, Ms. Zuckerman, I'm really busy right now. I don't know what kind of trouble Sam is in but I can't help him. I don't even really know him. I'm sorry, but the answer is no. Now if you'll excuse me, I have another call," he lied, quickly closing off the connection.

Dean turned his attention back to the computer screen in front of him, re-reading the last words he'd typed and trying to recapture his train of thought. He rubbed a hand down his face as he sat back in his chair, unable to settle. He jumped up and paced back and forth behind his desk. He paused in front of his mini-fridge and pulled out the bottle of health drink, taking several long swallows.

What was it about this Wesson guy? He didn't care what the guy's problem was. So, he'd been arrested for breaking into a store room and causing some damage. What did that have to do with him? And why the Hell couldn't he just let it go? Why did it seem like it should be important to him?

He was snapped out of his thoughts when Jeremy Wilcox came breezing into his office, and stopped suddenly, giving Dean a quick appraisal.

"You okay, Dean?" Wilcox asked.

"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. I'm good." He answered, bringing himself back to focus.

"Okay, good. I've got the latest report here on the market share analysis from the south-west. I wanted to ask you some questions about some of the trends I'm noticing, get your thoughts on a few things, if you have time."

"Sure, I got time." Dean sat, held his hand out for the report, and was soon lost in the conversation, all thoughts of Sam Wesson going clean out of his head.

Sam sat slumped into the middle of one of the two love seats that were placed catty-corner to each other in the small private consultation room. He'd been taken there by Jenny, one of the day nurses, told to take a seat and that his doctor would be with him shortly.

He was startled slightly by a man in a white coat bustling into the room and shutting the door behind him. Sam frowned, thinking that he should have been more aware of his surroundings, feeling instinctually that under normal circumstances he would have been attuned to everything going on around him. Normal, he surmised, being a time when he didn't have a shitload of Valium coursing through his veins, dulling his synapses. They'd made him take another dose, a pill this time, after breakfast. He hated the way it made him feel so dull.

"Good morning, Sam," the doctor said warmly. "I'm Doctor Andrew Sykes and you've been assigned to me for evaluation. How are you settling in?"

Sam tried to think how to best answer, because the very thought of 'settling in' sounded too permanent. He opted for what he thought would be the expected answer.

"Okay, I guess."

Sam tried to relax, to keep his body language submissive. To fight down the reflex that made him want to run out of there and keep going until he was safely away.

Dr. Sykes looked him over carefully, obviously in some kind of assessment on the younger man sitting across from him. He smiled slightly, trying to reassure the younger man, before looking down to read the chart he'd come in with. It already held a number of pages, which Sam took to be a less than good sign. The doctor made the odd 'hmph' sound as he read over the top page.

"The nurses report that you didn't eat any breakfast this morning, and you had nothing last night when you arrived here even though you'd been in police custody most of the day." The inference being that it was probably unlikely he'd eaten much that day at all.

Sam shrugged. "Wasn't really hungry."

"It's important that you eat, Sam. Keeping your body healthy will only help towards a maintaining a healthy mind. Make sure you try and eat a little at lunch time, huh? Strapping young man like yourself needs to eat."

Sam eyed the doctor skeptically. The man was short and overweight. Who was he to lecture over eating habits and keeping a healthy body?

Not getting any real reaction from his comment, the doctor cleared his throat and changed the subject, getting down to business. "So, do you want to tell me what's going through your mind right now, Sam?"

Did he? Christ, no. He wasn't sure he could make sense of it enough himself, and to put words to everything in his head right now would certainly lead to them throwing away the key. Instead, he found himself asking a question of his own, curiosity needing to be satisfied.

"Does it really say in there I was in a psych hospital in San Francisco?" He indicated the notes in the file the doctor held.

The doctor nodded. "Yes. I have some summary notes from Dr. Grace." At Sam's uncomprehending look he added, "You remember Dr. Grace?"

Sam's head gave an automatic negative shake. The answering frown from Dr. Sykes clued him in to the fact that he'd given a wrong answer. Shit. The Valium was really doing a number on his reactions, he hadn't meant to give anything away and he silently cursed himself. He cleared his throat and tried to regain control of the situation, deciding that he really wasn't ready to talk to this man, this doctor, about anything until he could work some of it out for himself.

To deflect he changed the direction of the conversation abruptly.

"I need to talk to someone about what's been happening at Sandover." Sam said clearly, sitting back up straight, trying to project a confidence he didn't quite feel and hide the desperation that he felt building.

"You can talk to me, Sam."

He sighed, "No, I can't. I need to talk to Dean. It's important. Ms. Zuckerman said she'd call him, and tell him I need to see him. Do you know when he's coming?" Sam felt twitchy, and rubbed his arms to ward off a sudden shiver.

Dr. Sykes checked the file, flipped over several pages. He didn't see the name 'Dean' anywhere on the paperwork. In fact there were no names listed under relatives or any other emergency contact. "Who's Dean?"

"My br…" Sam frowned, swallowed the word he was going to say, not knowing why he'd been about to say 'brother'. He recovered quickly, "Uh, friend. He's a friend. At Sandover. I need to talk to him. Please." Sam's eyes grew liquid and his face had the most hang-dog pleading look that had melted many a hard heart in the past. "I'm not trying to be difficult, it's just… I have to talk to him first. Then I'll talk to you as much as you want. I promise." It was a lie, but the doctor didn't have to know that.

The doctor sat forward, his voice developing a stern edge. "I want to help you, Sam. You can trust me. I can't help you if you won't help yourself. You're here to be evaluated and how well you cooperate will be noted during the evaluation. You do realize that, don't you?"

Sam nodded. "I know. Just… Please."

With a sigh, Dr. Sykes stood. It was clear he wasn't going to get Sam to open up just yet. He hadn't really expected to achieve much, the first session was usually a 'get to know you' time, for him to find a place to start before planning his strategy for evaluation. If Sam had had another breakdown, as Sam's previous doctor in San Francisco had feared, it was up to him to work out how bad this breakdown was, to find a starting place from where he could hopefully lead the young man back to a level of relatively normal function again. Perhaps he needed to find out more about this friend of Sam's and why it was so important to Sam to talk to him. But he wasn't going to make any promises to his patient just yet.

"I think we'll leave it at that for now, Sam. We'll talk again later, okay? We'll just take things a little at a time. For now you go have some lunch and then there's a group session I'd like you to sit in on. Dr. Wilkes is leading that. Alright?"

Sam couldn't help feeling like he was being treated like a kindergartner. It was frustrating but he had no choice, he had to play along. He nodded, swallowing thickly. There was one more thing he needed to say.

"Um, I don't like the Valium. I can't think. I don't want to take it anymore." God, he hated the pleading tone in his voice, it felt like all he'd done was plead but there was little else he could do.

Dr. Sykes was not unsympathetic, but he was firm. "You need something to keep you calm. The urine and blood tests we ran last night indicate you haven't been taking the meds Dr. Grace prescribed for you. That's probably one of the reasons why you've been out of control just recently. How long ago did you stop taking them?"

Sam had no answer, since he couldn't remember that he should have been taking anything to begin with. He could only answer honestly. "I haven't taken anything in a few weeks. But I've felt just fine. I don't need anything."

"Sam, you were on some pretty heavy medications. You shouldn't have stopped taking them. On top of everything else, you've probably been going through withdrawal on some level, feeling a little shaky perhaps. Valium was one of the drugs you should have been taking when you felt stressed. For now we're holding off on the other medicines until we can properly re-evaluate you, and you'll more than likely need to start taking them again. But we'll talk about that another time. For now let's just find out how best to do what's right for you, one step at a time."

The doctor's placating tone was starting to grate on Sam's nerves. What was best for him, in Sam's own opinion, was to get the hell out of here, go find Dean and work out between them why he felt like he was in the freakin' Twilight Zone.

The doctor exited the room with another bland smile and Jenny reappeared. Sam let himself be led back down the hallway and back into the day room. He headed directly over to a lone overstuffed chair that was turned to face the windows in the corner. He sat, curled himself into the chair and stared out at the sunny day and the garden that could be seen below, not wanting to interact with any of the other inmates.

Dean was the only person he needed or wanted to talk to.

It was a little after four pm and in the conference room on the fifth floor at St. Elizabeth's the daily patient discussion between that floor's resident doctors was well under way. The three doctors regularly met each afternoon for about an hour to discuss their patients and bounce ideas off one another, during the ward's rest period. They had worked their way through all the patients bar one, their newest. Sam Wesson.

Dr. Sykes asked his colleague, Claire Wilkes, the group therapist, what she thought of the young man after her afternoon session.

"He's very quiet," Claire said. "Well mannered. He politely declined to participate in the discussion. I tried a few times but couldn't get him interested and involved with any success. He seemed pretty evasive."

"Evasive's a pretty apt description," Sykes commented. "He was an inpatient at UCSF Med Center for three months, getting out around four months ago, so I think he knows the ropes. It looks like the wheels have come off for him again. He may have had another psychotic break. Although he was previously prescribed medications by his doctor in San Fran, I've been holding off giving him anything stronger than Valium for now, until I've completed his evaluation, but I may need to reconsider that. It wouldn't be surprising if he has had another break, between being off his meds and the three recent deaths where he works. Two of the deaths were close colleagues working in the same department, and the third happened right in front of him. Perhaps too much a reminder of what led to his first breakdown."

"I was watching him pretty closely this afternoon," Claire countered. "I read his chart when I came on and saw your note about him not eating. I discreetly observed during lunch time and he seemed to make an effort but didn't eat much more than a few mouthfuls of salad. We need to watch that he hasn't developed an eating disorder along with everything else. Have you had the chance to have another session with him today, Andrew?"

"Not a real session, but a short conversation. I didn't get much further than this morning. All he did was keep asking if he can talk to a guy named Dean Smith, who works at Sandover. He insists that he's close to the guy. I can't seem to get much past that. I'm wondering if it might not be a good idea to see if this Mr. Smith would be willing to come and visit. It might get Sam to open up a bit."

The other two doctors considered the idea for a minute or two, before agreeing that if it helped in getting Sam to cooperate, then it wouldn't hurt.

Sam lay on the narrow bed in a light doze. It was 'rest period'. He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but drowsiness had overtaken him after he'd been ordered to lie down for a while. Apparently 'rest period' was code around here for nap time. His slumber was far from restful, as he tossed and turned.

Images ran through his mind at lightning speed. Monsters, black dogs, werewolves, wendigos, vampires, spirits. He was slaying them all, salting and burning bodies, digging up graves. Driving along endless highways, riding shotgun in a black classic car that felt like home. And at his side, all the time, was Dean. They were easy in each other's company, sharing everything. Everything was jumbled together, until the flashing images slowed and the scene in Sam's dream-state focused.

He was lying on a bed, contentment running through him. Something dripped onto his forehead, then another drip. Annoyed, he opened his eyes… and saw her on the ceiling above him. Soundless words on her lips, a bloody gash across her abdomen, then the ceiling around her erupted into flames.

"Jess! No!" his dream-self screamed.

Gasping, Sam sat bolt upright, sweat pouring off him. He was shaking hard, breath coming in staggering gasps as his heart pounded. The dream – nightmare – still burned into his mind when he closed his eyes. He swung his legs off the bed and leaned forward, elbows on knees, and scrubbed his hands over his face, through his shaggy hair and clasped them tightly behind his neck. Christ. It was so real. He felt it had been real. There was one more part of the 'dream' that he remembered, the last little bit that followed the sequence of events he 'seen', even though the dream had stopped short. It was Dean, rushing in and saving him from the flames, dragging him out to safety, even as he fought to get back inside and save the girl he loved.

Sam got up as soon as he thought his legs would hold him and stumbled into the washroom area. He ran the water cold and splashed his face then grabbed the plastic Dixie cup, filled it and drank it dry three times.

What the hell was happening to him? Were the images in his dream real? Memories? Or tricks of a seriously broken mind? He wasn't going to find his answers locked up here in the nut ward, that much he sensed.

The elevator doors opened and Dean stepped out on the 18th floor. He could tell something was wrong the moment the doors opened. Loud sobbing could be heard, and hushed whispers. A small crowd had gathered near the water cooler halfway down the corridor, outside the door to the Accounting area. It was a scene reminiscent of just a few days ago when that other tech guy had stabbed himself with a pencil right in front of Dean.

_Dear God, not another one,_ he thought. Police and someone from the Coroner's Office passed him, escorting a gurney that held a body inside a black bag. He watched, dumbstruck, as they boarded the elevator he had just vacated. He stopped one of the staff as they headed back to their work stations and asked who it was, indicating toward the now-closed polished steel doors.

"Margie Williams," was the disconsolate answer. "She was acting all weird today, and now this. I don't know how her husband will take this, he's been pretty sick the last couple of months. Margie had been worried about him."

As the woman turned away from him, heading back to the work stations, Dean felt a sudden drop in temperature, an almost icy caress that tickled his neck. He shivered, trying to shake off the weird sensation.

This was getting to be too much. Three suicides in under a week, a fourth death if you counted the freak accident two nights ago that killed that security guard. It brought the total number of deaths at Sandover to seven in the space of two months, from what he'd heard. What the hell was going on around here?

And the damn air conditioning needed checking, freakin' cold spots in a building like this.

His phone was ringing as he got back to his office. In three quick strides he was at his desk scooping up the receiver and announcing himself.

"_Mr. Smith, good afternoon. This is Dr. Andrew Sykes at St. Elizabeth's Hospital."_

A flush of panic washed over Dean as his thoughts ran straight to his family. Had someone had an accident? He didn't realize he'd said that aloud until the doctor answered.

"_No, Mr. Smith, not an accident. St. Elizabeth's is a psychiatric facility here in Chicago. I'm calling you about a patient of mine, Sam Wesson."_

"What's that got to do with m… Wait? You said Sam Wesson is a _patient_? I knew he was acting a little screwy but I thought he was in jail or something."

"_No, he's here, undergoing evaluation."_

"Okay, so I'll say it again, what's that got to do with me?"

"_Sam's asking to see you. He says he needs to talk to you about some things. He won't discuss them with me and we feel that perhaps if you came and saw him he might settle in a bit better and open up a little more so we can help him."_

"Look, doc, I'm sorry he's in the hospital, but I don't know that I'd be much help. I hardly know the guy."

"_I understand, Mr. Smith. If there was anyone else we could call, we would. Sam doesn't have any family and it seems like you're about the only person he knows here in Chicago. It might really help him if you'd agree to just come and talk to him, just for a short while."_

Dean sighed, rounded his desk and sat heavily in his chair, elbows resting on his desk as he rubbed his brow with his free hand.

"_Mr. Smith?" _The other man queried when the silence dragged on.

"I'm thinking." He snapped.

Dean considered all the strange things that had been happening lately, the numerous deaths. Something continued to niggle at the back of his consciousness but he couldn't pin it down. Sam Wesson might be crazy, but maybe he did know a little of what was going on, since he seemed to be at ground zero for most of the stuff that had happened. And if things kept on the way they'd been going, Sandover Bridge and Iron was going to start to hurt in the hip pocket, and that could very well threaten his position. He decided that if he could do anything to get to the bottom of what was going on, he owed it to the company, to his colleagues, and most especially to himself.

"Alright. I'll come see him." He checked his electronic calendar. "Tomorrow. I have a phone conference tonight that I can't miss but I can schedule an hour in the morning. Say around 11 o'clock?" If he came in extra early in the morning he could be ahead enough to take the hour off.

"_That would be fine. Thank you, Mr. Smith. I really appreciate this, and I think this will really help Sam. We're on the fifth floor, East wing. Just ask for me, Andrew Sykes. I'll see you tomorrow."_

The call ended and Dean sat back with another deep sigh. He hoped the doctor was right about him helping. He didn't need the guilt if he just fucked the kid up any more than he was already, because he had no idea what he was supposed to say to him.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

Leah Reynolds had been a psychiatric nurse for over 20 years, and she'd seen some pretty tough cases through their illnesses during that time. Ones that broke her heart the most were cases like Sam Wesson. He was young, handsome, super smart, she thought having seen his history notes. To look at him or talk to him you would never know that underneath he was a young man who was in the clutches of serious mental illness. She sighed as she continued to watch screen number 6 from where she sat in the nurses' station.

A cup of coffee appeared on the desk at her elbow, startling her slightly. She looked over her shoulder to find that Angie, one of the other night nurses, had come in to the area – and she hadn't even noticed.

"Thanks," she muttered, and went back to watching.

"All quiet?" Angie asked.

"Pretty much," Leah rubbed her eyes then sipped her coffee. It was a little after 3am, that time of night when fatigue set in if you let it. "Except our newest, Sam, is restless again tonight." She indicated the screen she'd had her attention on.

The man in the bed was tossing and turning, the covers half thrown to the floor. There was no sound but she could see his lips moving as though he was muttering to himself. He appeared to be caught in the throes of a nightmare and she debated going in to check more closely on him. Her mind was made up when she heard him screaming, the sound coming from the direction of his room.

By the time she unlocked the door and made it inside the darkened patient room Sam was awake, sitting up on the bed, sweating and shaking.

"Sam? Are you alright?" she called softly, not wanting to startle the young man.

Confused, sleepy eyes looked up at her, silhouetted in the doorway. "Ruby?"

Leah flipped on the room's nightlight from the switch out in the hallway then closed the door. "No Sam, it's Leah. Everything okay, honey?"

Sam blinked owlishly in the soft light, looking around the room, taking in his surroundings and trying to make sense of what he saw. He frowned as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and bent over almost double, elbows on thighs, hands scrubbing at his face.

"I'm fine," he mumbled.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," he answered quickly and abruptly, sitting up then pushing himself to his feet.

"Sometimes it helps to talk about nightmares. Puts them into perspective sometimes."

Sam ran a hand through his disheveled hair as he walked a little unsteadily to the window and stared outside, as if the darkness could answer the thousand questions streaming through his mind at that moment.

"Sam?" Leah prompted, reminding him that she was expecting an answer.

"I don't want to talk about it," he answered, casting a quick glance in the nurse's direction. "I'm fine, really."

Leah was a little disappointed but hadn't really expected any other response given that he was proving to be very reluctant to open up about anything to anyone yet.

"Alright then, how about I get you something to help you go back to sleep?"

Sam spun around with an almost panicked look on his face before carefully trying to school his expression into something more neutral, although his breathing did kick up a notch.

"No. Please. I don't want anything. No drugs. Please. I'm fine. I just… Let me just clear my head and I'll be fine."

Sam didn't want any more Valium. He already felt like a walking zombie, his thought processes mired down in mud. He was never going to make sense of the things that kept coming to him in his dreams if he couldn't think.

"Okay," Leah conceded, "just buzz if you change your mind. And try to get some more sleep, okay?"

As she turned to go, Sam called after her, "Wait. Can you, uh, leave the light on?" He flicked a quick, nervous glance in the direction of the space under his bed.

"Five minutes only, Sam. You need to get some more sleep."

Sam doubted he'd sleep again that night. Part of him wanted to know what else his dreams would show him and part of him was terrified of the horrific images of monsters and demons. But the dream that had woken Sam screaming was about Dean, being torn apart by invisible dogs. Hellhounds. He had no desire to go back to that dream, and even now it left him shaky and near tears.

When the lights went out after the promised five minutes, Sam was still at the window. As the sun rose many hours later he still hadn't slept, even though he'd climbed obediently back into bed when Leah had come in again and scolded him for still being up.

The images coming to him were getting stronger, clearer and definitely more graphic, but still they didn't make a lick of sense. And they scared the shit out of him, especially the last images. Dean being torn to shreds and Sam being held immobile by some unseen force and made to watch, helpless to stop it. Dean's screams echoed in his ears, and tears spilled down his cheeks, the loss feeling so fresh and real.

The sound of the electronic lock clicking into place made Dean flinch. _This place is creepy,_ he thought. He was ushered into a small room and a couple of minutes later a man in a white coat arrived and introduced himself as Doctor Sykes.

"Thank you for agreeing to come by, Mr. Smith."

"Look, doc," Dean started, sighed and ran a hand over his mouth, "I gotta say, I have no idea why I'm here. I hardly know this guy, and I really don't know if me talking to him is gonna help. Hell, it could make things worse."

"I understand how you feel, and believe me if there were anyone else we could call to help Sam, we would. Thing is, the guy's got nobody. Not here in Chicago, nowhere. We can't get him to talk to us about his state of mind, he keeps on insisting he needs to talk to you, and you only."

"Is it safe?" Dean asked, nervously. "I mean, he's not violent or anything is he? 'Cause I haven't ever dealt with this kinda thing before."

Dr. Sykes smiled. "You'll be perfectly safe. Sam isn't violent, and there will be an orderly close by at all times."

Sykes explained to Dean that Sam had been having trouble sleeping and wasn't eating, and that he was experiencing nightmares and delusional episodes. He also told Dean that they had been giving Sam fairly hefty doses of Valium while he was being reassessed, and then they would probably reinstate the medications he'd had prescribed by his previous doctor.

Dean shook his head, a little confused.

"Hold on. Why are you telling me all this? I mean, I appreciate the honesty but isn't this kinda confidential patient stuff?"

"Normally, yes, but Sam has authorized me to share everything with you, in fact he insisted. He wanted you put down on record as his emergency contact, in lieu of any other next of kin."

"Jeez," Dean paused. "Surely there must be _someone_ else?"

"No, I'm afraid there's not. We checked his records from San Francisco. There was an uncle in South Dakota, but we can't locate him. He moved on and no one knows where to find him. Mr. Smith…"

"Dean. Please. Mr. Smith sounds… I dunno, weird."

"Alright. Dean. If you're not comfortable with being listed we can take you off and list him as having no next of kin."

"What happens then?" Dean asked, curious.

"The State will take over his care, make any decisions on his behalf."

Dean didn't like the sound of that. Everyone should have _someone_ to at least call on in an emergency. "Nah, it's okay, doc. Leave me on there. Just as long as I don't have to pay the bills, right?" he joked.

The doctor grimaced more than smiled.

"Before you see Sam there are a couple of things you need to know. He was diagnosed as schizophrenic some months ago, in San Francisco. No matter what he tells you, you cannot play into his delusions. You need to try to keep him grounded in reality. Let him talk, though. We need to know what's going on inside his head and since he won't talk to me or any of the other staff here, we're going to need your help in finding that out. Now, do you have any questions?"

"God, only about a thousand," he huffed a sigh and stood. "Okay, let's get this over with."

Dr. Sykes led Dean down the corridor and into the large day room. He'd given Dean a panic button to clip on his belt with instructions to press it if he felt threatened in any way. He pointed out the orderlies standing on either side of the large room, who were observing everything that was going on. Dean straightened his back and stepped into the room, making his way cautiously over to where Sam sat in the over-stuffed easy chair near the window. He stopped at its side and cleared his throat.

"Uh, Sam?"

Sam was staring blankly out the window, and it seemed to take a minute for him to recognize that he was being spoken to. His head turned slowly and he looked up, eyes somewhat glazed, but the look of sheer relief that graced his face when he saw who had called his name was unmistakable.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed, clumsily trying to push himself upright and nearly overbalancing. "Oh God, Dean! You came."

"Whoa, easy there, Tiger." Dean reached out to catch the lanky young man and eased him back into the seat, even as Sam gripped on to his arms.

Sam saw one of the orderlies take a half step forward and let go of Dean, holding his hands up submissively to indicate that he wasn't attacking Dean..

"I'm sorry."

Dean wasn't sure if Sam was apologizing to him, or to the Schwarzenegger-in-training nearby. Sam gestured Dean to the nearest chair, gave the burly orderly one last glance before leaning forward furtively and talking desperately in a near whisper.

"Dean, I'm so glad you're here. I know what I told you the other night sounded nuts, but I've been remembering more. I still can't put all the pieces together but… my dreams, I don't think they're just dreams. I think, I'm _sure_ I'm remembering things. I can't make sense of it all yet, but what I said about you and me having been together – before – I don't know how, but I'm convinced more than ever that it's real. And I think, deep down you know it, too."

"Um, Sam? I, uh, I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sam's brows drew down into a frown. "What do you mean? What I said the other night, when we…" he checked quickly around to make sure no one was within hearing distance, and lowered his voice a little more. "When we got rid of Sandover's ghost, and you said you felt it, that it felt right, fighting the spirit together."

_Shit,_ thought Dean, remembering the doctor's words. _Delusional. Schizophrenic._

Sam could see the hesitation.

"Dean? Come on, man. You're scaring me."

"Sam, there's no such thing as ghosts," Dean said calmly, firmly.

"Yeah, there is. You saw it. It killed Ian, and the others. We burned the gloves and destroyed it. The job's done, and you were going to think about going on the road together to hunt other evil things. Remember that I said it felt like we were meant to be together, partners, like brothers."

Dean's blank, disbelieving look had him on the verge of panic. Sam suddenly felt sick.

"Sam. There's no ghost. Those people committed suicide. Now, I know it's tragic but there's a rational explanation for it." He paused, trying to come up with words that wouldn't upset the other man too much, but he had to tell him the truth. "And honestly? I'm not sure how to say this, but... I don't know you. We didn't do _anything_ together the other night. We've exchanged a few words in the elevator, and that's it. I'm sorry you're having a hard time. That you're, um, not well. God knows all the recent deaths would be enough to put anyone over the edge. I felt like losing it myself yesterday, and I didn't know any of those people. You worked with two of them, and that made it worse…"

"Wait! What did you say? There was another death?" Sam jumped forward a little and almost made a grab for Dean again, aborting the move when it yet again attracted the unwanted attention of the orderly, who this time made a deliberate move closer.

"Ah, jeez…" Dean swiped a hand over his face, "I probably shouldn't have told you that."

Sam was shaking his head, thinking furiously. "It's not possible. We burned the gloves. That should've worked."

"Gloves? What gloves?"

"P.T. Sandover's gloves. From the display case."

Dean saw Dr. Sykes come into the room and start in their direction. Time to wrap this up, thank God!

"Sam, no one said anything about gloves being burned. You smashed some stuff up, they said, but that's it. Um, look, I have to go now. I'll, um, maybe come and see you again soon. Okay?" He stood and turned to leave.

"No!" Sam yelled suddenly, jumping up after him. "No, Dean, that's not possible." He grabbed Dean's arm to stop him leaving.

The orderly moved in. He put his body in between Sam and Dean, cutting Sam off from the other man, letting him move away while he got a firm grip on Sam. Dr. Sykes said something quickly to a shaken Dean who nodded before making his escape from the room.

"No! Dean, listen to me." Sam struggled against the man holding him back from going after Dean. "Dean! Please! Listen to me," he yelled. "The gloves have to have been destroyed. If they're still there, Sandover's still a threat. He'll keep going after people. Dean, he could go after you! Dean! Come back!"

The doctor pulled a hypodermic from his pocket and nodded to the orderly, who had a good hold on Sam and bent him over the back of the chair that Sam had previously been sitting in. He deftly popped the cover and plunged the needle into Sam's hip. Sam screamed as he felt it hit home.

"Dean! DEAN!"

The drug was fast acting and Sam quickly went limp. Some of the other patients nearby reacted to the commotion, crying out, getting agitated. A couple of nurses hurried in, one with a wheelchair. Dr. Sykes and the other nurse spoke soothingly to the patients to calm them down, telling them everything was all right. Sam was loaded into the wheelchair by the orderlies and taken away to his room.

Dean was pacing wildly near the ward's exit door, pausing to watch a now pliant and limp Sam being wheeled into a room near the nurses' station. A minute later the doctor was striding down the hallway towards him. Dean rounded angrily on him.

"Dammit, I knew this was a mistake." He was angry more at himself than anyone else.

"Are you alright? Can I get you some water?" the doctor asked before pulling a paper cup from the nearby dispenser and filling it from the water cooler.

Dean found himself being led into the small room he'd been in earlier. He gratefully accepted the cup given to him and gulped down a few mouthfuls before sitting down heavily and rubbing a hand over his eyes. A nervous habit, he knew. He recounted the conversation to the doctor, who made some notes and nodded here and there, asking the occasional question for clarification.

"So, what happens now?" Dean asked.

"Now? Hopefully we can get Sam to talk about this a little more, but I think it confirms that we need to get him back on some of the meds he was taking previously. I want to thank you for coming down here today."

It seemed almost anti-climactic. That was it? He was free to go and forget all about this now?

"Look, doc, if there's anything else I can do to help. You know? I feel sorry for the guy. I dunno, there's something about him… I mean it's creepy that he thinks we have this… relationship, connection, whatever, but he seems a good guy at heart. I'd like to help him, you know?"

Dr. Sykes smiled. "You've already been a great help. I'm sorry it turned a bit nasty at the end. I can call you when the evaluation has been completed and we've worked out where to go next."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Dean shook the doctor's hand as they got to the electronic door and it was opened for him.

Sam slept for several hours. He didn't dream, taken so far down into drugged sleep that even his worst nightmares couldn't reach him. As he woke he felt like his head was filled with cotton, his mouth dry and this tongue thick. Christ, he was thirsty. He tried to turn in the bed, his uncoordinated limbs refusing to cooperate. A frustrated groan escaped his lips. His eyes blinked open slowly and he tried to focus on something, anything, without much success. Whatever they'd given him, it wasn't Valium. This was much heavier. Only one thought swirled in the mists of his brain.

Dean.

Dean was in danger.

He had to warn him. He had to save his brother. Sam didn't even question the thought. Dean _was_ his brother. Somehow Sam knew that to be a fact, beyond a shadow of a doubt. It danced on the edge of his memory as he sank back into sleep.

When he next woke long shadows outside his window told him it was late afternoon. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth and his head was a little clearer but it felt like he was wading through molasses. He sat up, waiting for the room to stop spinning before trying to stand then stagger to the washroom where he could quench his thirst and relieve the pressure in his bladder.

His movements attracted attention. He heard his door unlock. Jenny called out to him, asking if he was okay. Sam leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way back to the bed and sat, answering with a quiet, "Yeah", and a nod that made his head feel ten sizes too big.

He swallowed thickly. "What the hell did they give me?"

"A high dose of Valium to start with, then some Haldol a little while ago. Doctor Sykes thought it best to start you back on it."

Shit. Sam hadn't even registered anyone coming in and dosing him up a second time. It would explain why his ass hurt, though. Glutes were a popular sticking place for IM injections.

"Come on," Jenny encouraged. "It's suppertime. If you promise to behave you can eat in the day room."

"Not hungry." Sam's standard response, and truthfully he wasn't. His stomach was churning too much to feel hunger.

"Have to eat, honey. Don't want to end up getting sick. If you prefer you can eat in your room."

No. Better out with the rest of the basket-cases. If he sat near the other big guy – Eric? – he could probably offload some of his meal without anyone really noticing. Eric had a huge appetite and was always asking for seconds.

He followed Jenny back to the day room, took his plate, found Eric and sat at the table. As he stirred the mashed potato on his plate, Sam let his thoughts freewheel. Even though he still felt fuzzy-headed, it seemed like everything was suddenly clearer. He was more convinced than ever that what he'd dreamed was real. But why didn't Dean remember what had happened, what they'd talked about? He had no answer. He also had no answer to why he suddenly had a psychiatric record. If that were true wouldn't he remember at least some small part of it? He couldn't make sense of anything. Maybe he really was delusional. Except he couldn't get that gut feeling to go away, the one that told him Dean needed his help, that Dean was in danger, and none of this was real.


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

"Unless there's anything else you need, Dean, I'm finishing up for the night," Kerry, Dean's PA said as she dropped his take-out salad on his desk.

Dinner. In the office again. Adler wasn't kidding when he'd said it would take eating at his desk and being there all hours.

"Thanks, Kerry, I don't think there's anything else. Goodnight."

She waved a cheery 'goodnight' and disappeared down the hallway, collecting her coat on the way out.

Dean sat, flipped the lid off the salad box and stared at its contents. He pushed the container away with a sigh. All afternoon he'd found himself going back to his visit to Sam Wesson that morning. He had no idea why, but there was something about the guy that bugged Dean. He got up and found himself taking the stairs to the 22nd floor.

"_Meet you on 22."_

"_Yeah. Just, uh, take the stairs."_

What the hell? Dean shook his head to clear the phantom echoes from his mind and continued up.

The main foyer contained the display regaling the company's history, and the story of P.T. Sandover. Dean stood and stared at the display, all evidence of Sam's attempt at destruction removed, except that the case containing the company founder's work gloves had yet to have new glass installed. The case was empty.

"_What you wanna bet there's a smidge of DNA in there."_

He ran his hand over the case.

_The breaking of glass, a drop in temperature…_

Dean shivered, a sudden cold spot making his breath vaporize and a vaguely familiar feeling creep down his spine. He spun around and was surprised to see an old man standing not six feet behind him. He was about to ask what the man was doing there when the lights flickered and the man… winked out.

"What the Hell." It seemed to be his catch-cry that evening. Dean looked around but there was no sign of the man. He checked all the offices nearby and found them securely locked. The old man would have either gone into one of the offices or had to have gone past Dean to leave, but he was nowhere to be found.

This was too creepy. Or Dean was over-tired and over-stressed and he was imagining things. He blamed part of it on the fact he'd been dwelling on the things Sam had said. He shook his head. He was tired. It was time to call it quits for the night.

"I need to make a phone call." Sam stood at the nurses' station where there was a small patient access window. "Please."

"Sorry, Sam. No phone calls." Michelle, one of the other nurses on duty told him patiently, and went back to her paperwork.

"Please. It's an emergency."

"What kind of emergency?" the nurse asked.

"The life or death kind. I need to talk to Dean."

"Sam, I'm sorry sweetie. You're not allowed phone call privileges yet. You have to wait until Dr. Sykes clears it."

"Then I need to talk to Dr. Sykes." Sam knew they were backing him into a corner, and he just hoped that whatever happened to him as a consequence of telling the doctor what he wanted to hear, it would get him in touch with Dean so he could finish telling him about Sandover's ghost, and what he had to do to get rid of it. Before it came after Dean. Sam could resign himself to having to spend the rest of his days locked up in the psyche ward just as long as Dean was safe. Because if anything happened to Dean it wouldn't matter what fate awaited Sam, he just couldn't face losing his brother again.

Although it was after hours as far as usual consulting times were concerned, Andrew Sykes made an exception and came back into work to see Sam. If Sam was finally ready to talk to him he wasn't going to let the opportunity disappear.

Sam appeared quite agitated, but was making an effort to stay in control. Dr. Sykes wondered what it was that was upsetting him, and he asked as much.

"I need to talk to Dean." At the doctor's sigh and almost frustrated expression, Sam continued quickly. "Please, just tell me what I need to do to be allowed to call him."

"First I'd like you to calm down a little, take a seat and tell me why you need to talk to him so urgently." Sykes indicated the sofa across the small room, and pointedly sat down himself.

Sam paced for a couple more seconds before sitting on the edge of the seat, elbows on knees and foot twitching up and down. He couldn't help it, no matter how hard he tried. This was just too important and he couldn't blow it.

"It's almost time for your medication, Sam, do you need to take it before we begin?"

"No!" Sam answered quickly and perhaps a little too forcefully. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "No, I'm fine. I can wait. Really."

"Okay. So why do you need to talk to Dean so urgently?" The doctor repeated.

"It's going to sound crazy, I know, but he's in danger and I need to warn him."

"In danger from who?"

"From… from what's been killing the people at Sandover."

"Sam, the deaths at the company are tragic but they were suicides. They were victims of their own circumstances. Perhaps if they'd spoken to someone they could have been helped, and I believe that Sandover's are calling in some counselors to be available to talk to staff if they are having problems. But Dean seems like the kind of guy that is very capable. I don't think he's a candidate for suicide."

Sam felt the sting of tears building behind his eyes. He could feel that no matter what he said he wasn't going to be able to get through to Dean in time. His brother was going to be one of Sandover's victims and he couldn't do anything to stop it.

"Doc, you are just going to have to believe me. I can't tell you how I know, but I just know. I'll tell you anything you wanna hear, hell I'll even let you drug me to the eyeballs, but please, just one phone call. It's all I'm asking for."

"Tell me why you left San Francisco, and why you stopped taking your medication." The doctor asked firmly.

Sam knew when he was defeated. He was going to have to give something up to get what he wanted. He knew that he could be a convincing liar. The only good effect of the heavier drugs he was being fed was that it somehow freed his mind in a way that was letting the memories come back to him. There was a lot that still didn't make any sense at all, but more and more was filtering through with every hour that passed, and knowing that he'd had to lie and pretend to be someone he wasn't was a big part of his life.

"I, uh, I thought that a fresh start was all I needed to, to get away from everything, and that by going somewhere new I wouldn't need to take the pills." Sam dropped his gaze and tried to look repentant. He hoped he was doing a good enough job.

"You didn't tell Dr. Grace that you were leaving."

"No. I just wanted to get away. I was doing fine, really. But there is something going on at Sandover, and I need to talk to Dean about it."

"You told Dean this morning that it was a ghost."

Sam's head shot up. Dean had told the doctor what he'd said? He shouldn't have been surprised, given the way Dean was behaving, but it still hurt that Dean would have repeated what he'd said.

"I know. I don't know why I said that." No excuse that he gave was going to sound rational, so plausible denial or even admitting to a little lapse of sanity wasn't going to make any difference now.

They talked for close to an hour. The doctor asking questions and Sam feeding him the answers he thought were the right responses. He was full of contrition, vaguely admitted to feeling depression, which wasn't too far from the truth, and making up whatever was needed to fill in the rest. He knew he was playing right into the role of the paranoid schizophrenic, but rather that than lose Dean.

Sam felt wrung out by the time the doctor ended the session, seemingly satisfied with the answers he'd pried out of his patient at last.

"Thank you, Sam. I'll bet you feel much better having talked about all that. I think you're probably quite tired now. How about we continue again in the morning."

The doctor turned to leave the room.

"What about my phone call?" Sam asked earnestly.

Dr. Sykes turned back briefly, "You get a good night's rest, and we'll see about it in the morning."

"What? No. You promised. I need to talk to Dean. Tonight." That panicked, helpless fear was threatening to overwhelm him again. Sam stalked after the doctor's retreating form as he walked back towards the nurses' station.

"In the morning, Sam. Not before."

The thought that this was all too reminiscent of him butting heads with his father came unbidden to Sam's mind, and he knew this was another fight he wasn't going to win. Despite knowing that the punishment would be far worse than being sent to his room or given extra training sessions, Sam couldn't stop himself from arguing.

"Dammit, that's not fair!" he yelled. "I gave you what you wanted."

The doctor turned to face Sam, rising to his full height and standing firm. "I said I'd consider it, but not before tomorrow morning. And if you don't calm yourself down right now, you'll have to wait even longer. Now, it's time for your medication and then I suggest that you try to get a good night's sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

That was clearly a dismissal. Sam found himself staring at the other man's back, bitterly disappointed but somehow less surprised about the outcome than he thought he'd be. Realizing that further argument was only going to do more harm than good, he backed down and retreated to his room.

The nursing shift had changed and Leah came in a few minutes later. She ran the usual evening observations and then handed him a small paper cup with two pills, Valium and something else that Sam didn't have the energy to question. Next he had to bare a hip for the Haldol injection. That stung and he couldn't help the gasped 'ow' from escaping, which gained him a heartfelt apology from Leah.

As he readied himself for bed, Sam hoped to hell that Dean would be alright.

Dean was at his desk at his usual time the next morning, but he was far from bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He'd tossed and turned half the night, trying to make sense out of what he saw, what he _thought_ he saw the night before.

Logging in to the network on his PC he noticed an email that he must have missed the day before. It was a request to report to HR in room 1444. Apparently there was some additional paperwork he needed to fill out ASAP, some screw up with his contract that need to be rectified or they wouldn't be able to pay him at the end of the month.

_Great,_ Dean thought, _that's all I need._ He glanced at his watch. It was too early to go down there but he'd take care of it as soon as the HR office opened. Right now what he needed, cleanse or no cleanse, was coffee. Strong and black. Rather than get it from the coffee station down the hall he decided to kill the time until someone in HR got in by going down to the coffee shop at street level.

A half hour later Dean was exiting the elevator on the 14th floor. He walked down the vaguely familiar hallway, although he was sure he'd never been on that floor before, and was checking the door numbers for room 1444. It struck him as odd that he seemed to be in a fairly deserted section of the building, with most of the rooms closed off. 1444 certainly did not look like the HR office, and Dean approached the door with caution, looking around as he got closer, something tickling at his senses.

The door opened easily and his suspicions were confirmed when all he saw inside were shelves of abandoned computer hardware. He stepped cautiously inside and just as he cleared the threshold the door slammed shut behind him. Dean spun around quickly and tried to pull the door open again.

"What the…"

He didn't finish the thought as the temperature in the room plummeted and his breath fogged in the frigid air. Dean turned back to the room and peered down between the rows of shelving. Without realizing how it got there he found an old tire iron rod in his hand, an old sample or from a relic of the past laying on a convenient shelf. The lights in the room flickered; Dean swallowed thickly, his palms starting to sweat in fear.

To his right appeared the shape of the same old man he'd seen the night before. Instinctually Dean swung the tire iron, closing his eyes, expecting to feel the thud of iron meeting flesh. He was more than surprised to instead hear a shriek and feel no resistance. He halted the swing just before the rod connected with the shelving, opening his eyes to find the man was gone.

Dean wasted no time getting out of that storage room. He headed back to his office, taking the tire iron with him. Whatever that thing was, imagination or not, this was the only weapon he had to make it go away and he wasn't going to leave it behind. He received a couple of strange looks, but since the company's business was iron it was easy to explain away as a sample that he had a need for. Lame explanation even to his own ears, but it would do.

When he got to his office Dean called his PA in. "Kerry, can you find out what happened to the gloves that were in the display case that got broken up on 22, please?"

"Sure, Dean." Even though it was an odd request he knew she'd do it without asking questions.

Dean sat nervously, waiting for the answer, fiddling with the iron in his hands, flipping it back and forth, letting it slide down his palm before flipping it over and repeating the action. He hoped it wouldn't take too long, because there was no way he could concentrate on anything until he knew where the gloves were and could get his hands on them.

The phone buzzed, startling him. He answered quickly, seeing Kerry's name come up on the phone's screen.

"Dean? The gloves are up in Mr. Adler's office until the case is fixed."

He thanked her before hanging up. He considered calling Mr. Adler but decided anything he said would probably only sound crazy.

Crazy… Did this mean that Sam wasn't really crazy after all? All the stuff about ghosts, about this ghost, that Sam had tried to tell him about yesterday was true? He didn't have time to stop and think about it right then. He just knew he had to get his hands on those gloves and, what was it Sam had said to do? Burn them?

Dean made his way up to his superior's office. Mr. Adler wasn't in and as soon as his assistant stepped away from her desk Dean snuck in and began to search for the gloves. It didn't take long to find them, but as soon as he had them in his hands he felt the tell-tale drop of air temperature again.

He was ready this time, and swung at the apparition as soon as it appeared. Hurrying, before it could have a chance to reappear, Dean dropped the gloves into a metal waste basket and reached for the ornamental cigarette lighter he saw on Adler's desk. Another relic of a bygone age. He hoped to god it worked still. He'd just got the thing to spark when the ghost reappeared and Dean had to drop the lighter to once again swipe the iron through its non-corporeal body. The thing was coming back quicker and quicker each time.

Dean worked the lighter's striker as quickly as he could, and after several aborted sparks the thing produced a steady flame. Just as he touched the flame to the old gloves, the spirit appeared again and made a desperate lunge sending Dean across desk. There was a loud shriek as the spirit burst into cold flame and vanished for the last time as the old gloves disintegrated into a pile of smoldering ash.

Dean picked himself up from where he'd landed, hoping that all the noise hadn't drawn too much attention, and was dismayed when Mr. Adler walked in, an indefinable look on his face.

"Uh, I can explain..." Dean started, not entirely sure that he could explain. He was still trying to make sense of it himself, but it was like a curtain had lifted and he could suddenly see daylight. He had a weird sense of déjà vu at first and half expected to look up and see Sam standing there celebrating the destruction of the ghost with him.

Oh, God, Sam! He remembered Sam telling him about the things he'd been dreaming about, his sense that he didn't belong, that he had another destiny. Dean had felt it too, but he hadn't been ready to acknowledge it even to himself. And now Sam was… frack! Sam was in the freakin' psyche ward because of him. He didn't know why he hadn't remembered all the things Sam had said to him before, but he knew it was his fault that Sam was locked up. He had to fix this, somehow. He had no idea what he could do, but he'd work it out.

"Dean, Dean, Dean."

Mr. Adler's calm, school-marmish tone brought him back to awareness of the current situation. Shit.

"Maybe I can't explain," Dean said sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I know what this looks like… well, maybe I don't, but, um…"

"I had such high hopes for you, Dean."

"I know. I'm sorry. I've been doing a lot of thinking since the other morning, and I… I dunno, I just feel like there's some stuff I gotta take care of, some other work I have to do, and it's important. So I think it's best if I resign, effective immediately. You can take any damages out of my severance," he added, hopefully.

Adler stepped up to Dean, stopping less than an arm's length away.

"About freakin' time."

Whatever he'd been expecting his boss to say, it wasn't that.

"Excuse me?" he asked, puzzled.

"It took you long enough," Adler continued mockingly, then reached out his hand and touched Dean on the forehead. "Your brother really is the smart one in the family, isn't he? He figured this all out long before you did, despite my best efforts."

Feeling the proverbial penny drop, Dean's heart sank to his boots. Sweet Jesus, what had he done? Suddenly he felt anger towards the man in front of him as all his memories came rushing back.

"You're not Mr. Adler, are you? Who the hell are you, or _what_ are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Zachariah. I'm Castiel's boss."

"You're a freakin' angel? Great, just what I need. Another one!"

"I'm not _just_ another angel, Dean. And I don't appreciate having to come down here and straighten out the mess that's been made, but after Uriel… well, let's just say that you haven't exactly been pulling your weight lately."

"So, what? You created some kind of alternate universe? Why, for God's sake?"

"God had nothing to do with it. You were ready to throw in the towel. Castiel told you what your job is and you refused to step up to the plate. You wanted out, so I took you out, until you could come to your senses. We should've had this conversation _days_ ago. Coulda saved yourself, well coulda saved _Sam_ a lot of heartache."

"You leave Sam out of this." Dean threatened.

"A little late for that, don't ya think?" Zachariah countered.

"So, what, this was all some kind of lesson? It's all some kind of hallucination?"

"Not at all. Real place, real haunting. Just plunked you down without the benefit of your memories."

"Just to shake things up? Hmm? So you guys can have some fun watching us run around like ass-clowns in monkey suits?"

"To prove to you that the path you're on is truly in your blood. You're a hunter, not because your dad made you, not because God called you back from Hell, but because it is what you are. And you love it, you'll find your way to it in the dark every single time and you're miserable without it. Dean, let's be real here, you're good at this. You'll be successful, you _will_ stop it."

"Stop what? The Apocalypse? Lucifer? What? Be specific, man."

"You'll do everything you're destined to do. All of it. Oh, I know, you're not strong enough," Zachariah chided in a mocking tone, "you're scared, you've got daddy issues. You can't do it, right?"

Dean glared at the angel, feeling more and more pissed with each word.

"Angel or not, I _will_ stab you in your face."

Zachariah smiled, this was the Dean he needed to see.

"All I'm saying is, it's how you look at it. Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You get to change things, save people, maybe even the world."

Doubt flooded through Dean's mind and he turned away. He wasn't ready to save the world; he couldn't even save himself or his brother.

Zachariah continued, "All the while you get to drive a classic car and fornicate with women. This isn't a curse."

Dean had to give him that.

"It's a gift, so for God's sakes, Dean, quit whining about it."

Dean turned back to face the angel.

"Look around," Zachariah said, "there are plenty of fates worse than yours. Are you ready to stand up, and be who you really are?"

Zachariah had a point. There were worse fates, and Sam was living one of them. Dean had to know whether Zachariah had put everything back the way it should be.

"What about Sam? Is he okay?"

"I'm not about to fix your messes, Dean. Part of taking responsibility is learning how to fix things yourself. Sam's your problem, not mine."

And before Dean could argue, Zachariah was gone.

"Hey, dude, where's my freakin' car!" He yelled at the dead air, almost as an afterthought.

Shit. And shit again, Dean swore. He franticly felt his pockets for the card that Dr. Sykes had given him. Crap, it was down in his office – well, Dean Smith's office. He raced downstairs, past his surprised assistant and rummaged until he found the card, then dialed furiously.

It took the hospital a few minutes to locate the doctor, but when Dean finally got him on the other end of the phone he wasn't sure what to say that wouldn't make things worse. So he started with something relatively safe and innocuous.

"Hi, Dr. Sykes, look I just called to see how Sam was doing. I couldn't stop worrying about him, ya know?"

"_Dean, I'm glad you called. Sam has been asking to talk to you again."_

"He has? I'm glad. I want to talk to him. What did he want?" he tried to sound nonchalant.

"_Last night he was getting all worked up. He wouldn't let go of the idea that you were in danger."_

"Oh, well, can you tell him I'm fine, that everything is fine now. There's no danger. Actually, you know what, you think maybe I could come by, tell him myself and, I dunno, take him out for a bit?"

"_Dean, I'm not sure you understand just how fragile Sam is right now. I managed to get Sam to talk about a few things last night, and he is a very sick young man. Taking him outside the hospital at this point could be more than he can handle. I don't think it's a good idea that he has any more visitors at this point, but I did tell him he could talk to you on the phone."_

"Oh." Dean was taken aback. He had to work out how to get Sam out of there. It didn't sound like it was going to be easy. "Well, can I talk to him, then?"

The doctor asked him to hold on while the call was transferred up to the ward and they could get a cordless unit to Sam. Dean waited impatiently, trying to work out what to say to his brother.

Jenny found Sam in the day room and told him he had a call that Dr. Sykes approved him to take, but he was only allowed a minute. Sam took the phone, hoping for some privacy but the nurse refused to let him get more than a few feet away.

"Dean?" Sam asked desperately.

"_Yeah, it's me. How you doin'?"_

Sam lowered his voice as much as he dared, "Dean, listen to me, please. You're in danger. I know it sounds nuts …"

Dean quickly spoke over the top. _"Sam, it's okay. I'm okay. I remember, Sammy. Everything. And I'm so sorry. I'm gonna get you out of there. Just hold on a little longer, okay little brother? I'm gonna figure this out and get you out of there."_

Sam didn't know how to answer around the lump in his throat. He couldn't stop his eyes from tearing up, hearing that Dean remembered. It meant that he really wasn't crazy and he trusted that his big brother would work it all out. It was so good to have him back.

"Okay. I can do that. But, please, don't take too long."

"Sorry, time's up, Sam." Jenny held her hand out for the phone.

"Dean, I gotta go. I'll see you soon."

"_Count on it, Sam."_

"Everything alright, Sam?" Jenny asked.

"Yeah," Sam smiled. "Everything's fine. He's okay."

"See, Dr. Sykes told you there was nothing to worry about. Lunch is in about 30 minutes." She added as she walked away.

Sam sat back in his usual chair and grinned. Yeah, everything would be okay, but he just wished that Dean could get him out of there now. He didn't know how much longer he could take being locked up.


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

Dean left Sandover and went back to his apartment. There were two things he needed to do and he wanted both of them done yesterday. The first was probably the hardest to accomplish, to find a way to spring Sam. The second was probably a hell of a lot easier – he needed to find his baby. Driving this prissy Prius was killing him. He'd checked the parking lot at Sandover and driven around some of the adjacent streets with no luck. He'd checked the streets near his own apartment, again turning up nothing. He realized that he'd never asked Sam where he'd been staying, so tracking that down was next on his list, all the while he was trying to come up with a workable plan to get Sam out of the nut farm.

His hacking skills weren't up to the same level of skill as Sam's but they were decent enough. It only took him just over two hours to find where Sam had been living. It seemed while Dean was living the good life in a condo close to the city, Sam had been doing it tough in a small studio down in Southside.

Dressed much more comfortably in jeans, t-shirt and an over-shirt – albeit a plain, pale blue dress shirt left un-tucked and unbuttoned – Dean set out in the hated Prius. The closer he got to Sam's neighborhood the more he hoped to God he wouldn't find what was left of his baby scattered in some back alley chop shop. A careful cruise of the streets came up with nada, so he parked as close as he could to the address.

The building was rundown and old but relatively clean. It only took a few seconds to pick the lock on the third floor apartment. On first look anyone could have been mistaken for thinking no one lived there. The place was as neat as a pin but devoid of any personal touches. Decoration a la Sam at his OCD best.

The one-room apartment had a tiny kitchenette in one corner, the sink bench shining and clear of any dishes. Dean started there and checked cupboards and drawers, turning up only obscenely neat stacks of dishes, pans and cutlery. The tiny refrigerator had nothing but an almost-sour carton of milk. A bathroom that was little more than a toilet was curtained off from the kitchen, with a shower nozzle and taps sticking out from one wall. It could barely be up to health code. The kitchen sink, it seemed, did double-duty as the bathroom sink.

The living area was really only a sofa and a TV, but Dean checked under the couch cushions and under the sofa itself just in case. Then he moved on to the bedroom area. A ridiculously small, but meticulously neat double bed, small wardrobe and single chest of drawers made up the sleeping area. A quick look in the wardrobe revealed an empty duffle bag, a pair of sneakers, two sets of Sandover issued polo shirts and chinos, two pairs of jeans and three over-shirts. The bureau contained assorted underwear and socks in minimal amounts, a handful of t-shirts, and… yahtzee! A storage locker key and a receipt.

Dean quickly pocketed the key and receipt, packed Sam's meager belongings into the duffle, leaving the Sandover clothing behind, and left the apartment.

Finding the Prius in exactly the same condition he'd left it surprised Dean slightly. He pressed the key remote, unlocking the door and got in behind the wheel. He programmed the address from the receipt into the GPS navigator and waited until the directional map reconfigured. The modern technology had a use, but it would never replace giant-brained little brothers as a navigator.

Thirty minutes later Dean was throwing the roller door of the storage unit open to reveal a gleaming black Chevy Impala.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you! You poor thing being stuck in here on your own."

He quickly checked his car over, and if those angel dicks had so much as scratched the paintwork there would literally be hell to pay, then checked the trunk and weapons locker. Finding everything in order, including his and Sam's duffels, he threw the bag he'd taken from Sam's apartment in to join the other two, jumped into the driver's seat and, feeling like he was truly home, started his car up. Her throbbing heart brought a moment of joy, overshadowed only by the empty shotgun position.

Unsure of what else to do, Dean drove past St. Elizabeth's Hospital. Visiting hours were well and truly over by then which meant all the external doors were locked down with only authorized personnel able to access. Somehow he didn't think his CDC ID would work here, and they'd only bothered to make the one hospital ID for Sam who'd used it just a short while ago to get in to see the girl who'd drowned a classmate at Truman High. Still, he cased the place as thoroughly as possible and although they often joked about being able to break in or out of practically anywhere, it seemed that this time Dean had met his match. As reluctant as he was to leave Sam in that place any longer than he had to, Dean drove back to his apartment.

For the first time in days, Sam lost that feeling of being utterly alone and abandoned. Since he'd talked to Dean on the phone earlier in the day he could set his mind at ease, knowing that he wasn't going insane – or at least no more insane than usual, given their lives.

It didn't make his situation any easier to bear though, in fact it made it harder. In some small way he could accept being drugged and forced to make up lies to get by when he thought he really was losing it, but _knowing_ that he was in the wrong place or time or whatever made it almost impossible. And Sam's stubbornness and anger became monsters in their own right, clamoring to be set free. He'd clammed up again in his session with Dr. Sykes, refused flat out to go to group therapy with Dr. Wilkes, and wound up throwing a tantrum to rival the worst set-to he and his father had ever had before he left for college, over being told to 'clean his plate' at dinner time. The food in that place was barely edible to start with, in Sam's opinion, and his appetite had taken a hike ever since he'd been there, so being threatened with force feeding if he didn't start eating more was the final straw. What made it even worse was there was one particular orderly who'd finally twigged to his trick of letting Eric eat his food.

In fairness the food fight that broke out wasn't entirely Sam's fault. Eric didn't take too kindly to suddenly having the food Sam had given him taken away by the orderly so he'd started screaming and crying. Sam yelling at the nurse, Michelle, helped things along, and when he stood up angrily and thumped the table, he honestly hadn't meant to hit the edge of the full plate of food that had been set back down in front of him. Most of it had landed in Andrea's lap, another patient who'd sat next to him. She was the one who started throwing food, but Sam was the one who'd earned the "time out" and the promise of a dose of Valium if he didn't calm down soon.

Time Out was spent in a small padded room with no furniture where a patient couldn't really do any damage to themselves or anyone else. It had taken two orderlies to get him in there, and he'd ranted and raged, banging on the door for nearly a half hour before his energy was spent. He sat in the corner of the room, congealed gravy sticking his hair up in all directions from where he'd run his hands through it. Dean would laugh his ass off if he could see his little brother looking like this, of course that would probably be after he beat the crap out of the people who put him in the room in the first place. Well, maybe not, maybe Dean would kick _his_ ass for getting himself into the situation to begin with.

At bedtime they came and let him out in time to go through the usual nighttime routine of drugging him up to go to sleep. The only thing different tonight was that he was allowed a shower first, supervised of course.

Dean paced up and down the length of his living room. He'd stopped on the way home to buy a six pack, a double cheese-burger with extra onions, jumbo fries and two helpings of pie. All that remained of that was now empty wrappers and two unconsumed bottles of beer; and a vaguely uncomfortable pain in his belly.

He was running out of ideas on how to get Sam out of the hospital. He'd even tried yelling for Castiel but the angel was still not showing up. He was at the point where he was ready to tear the next angel he ran into limb from limb when there was a fluttering sound behind him.

Dean turned abruptly and found himself nose to nose with the angel he'd been calling for hours. His hands came up automatically and shoved Castiel hard, hard enough that the angel stumbled backwards a couple of steps.

"Just where the HELL have you been?" Dean demanded hotly.

"I was ordered to stay away from you," was the too-calm answer.

"Yeah? Well I need you, I've been calling you for freakin' hours!"

"I heard."

"You..?" Dean took a deep breath and ran a hand over his mouth, pushing down all the things he wanted to say, fearful that if he did say them Castiel would leave and his one hope of getting Sam back would leave with him. "You know what, never mind. That's not important. What _is_ important is that you go now and get Sam. Bring him here. Right now."

"I cannot."

"Don't you stand there and tell me you 'cannot'. You can, dammit, and you will."

"I am under orders not to interfere."

Dean was close to slinging off and flattening the irritating being in front of him. "I don't _care_ what your orders are, Cass. If your freakin' boss wants my cooperation he needs to let you help me get Sam back, or it's no deal!"

Castiel cocked his head, as if listening to something beyond Dean's range of hearing, then he looked calmly back at Dean, stoic refusal chiseled in the features of his host's face.

"Come on, Cass, please? Sam saved your ass back there when Alistair would have ripped your Grace right out of your body and sent it wherever the sun don't shine. You _owe_ him." Dean gripped the angel's arms, squeezing roughly, trying to get his desperation to make some impact on the emotionless figure before him where his demands had not.

Castiel gave an angel's version of a sigh, looked Heaven-ward one more time and leaned in to speak softly. "It isn't that I don't _want_ to help you. I am not _allowed_ to help you."

"Oh yeah? And when has that ever stopped you? And whatever happened to being here to do what I decided was the right thing to do?" Dean threw back bitterly, referencing the time when Dean and Sam had refused to leave an entire town full of people to be obliterated by Uriel in order to stop the breaking of the seal of Samhein rising. He'd play dirty pool if it meant getting his brother back. "Like it or not, Cass, Sam and I are a twofer deal. I don't get Sam you don't get me. And I don't care if you threaten to throw me back in the Pit because now I _know_ you need me."

Castiel stood silent for a couple of minutes, seeming to consider what Dean had said. Finally he gave in.

"Alright. I will go and get Sam."

And before Dean could even mutter a 'thank you' or question the sudden change of heart the angel was gone with a fluttering sound and a stiff breeze. Dean was just starting to recover from the abrupt departure when there was another flutter and Castiel was back, holding up all six feet four inches, 220 pounds of Dean's soundly sleeping Sasquatch of a brother.

Dean rushed forward to help support Sam's weight, even though the angel didn't need the help.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean lightly tapped Sam's face, trying to rouse him with no success. "Come on, Cass, help me get him into the bedroom."

Together they wrestled the oversized body into the bedroom and into the king-sized bed.

"Hopefully he just needs to sleep off whatever they gave him," Dean said with concern. "Thanks, Cass. I, uh…"

The angel held up a hand to stop him. "As you said, I owed Sam. Now the debt is repaid. I must go now."

And again, the angel was gone in a blink. It was something Dean didn't think he'd ever get used to, but for now he was grateful. He turned his attention to watching his brother sleep, and drool all over the pillow. God that was gross!

Sam didn't even as much as twitch until close to seven the next morning. It was unnerving for Dean to see him sleeping so soundly. Sam was never still, even in sleep, as a rule.

Awareness that something was different slowly filtered into Sam's consciousness. The air smelled different. As he sluggishly rolled over he noticed that he was still contained fully within the confines of a much larger bed, even if he stretched his legs out. The texture of the sheets was different, and as he cracked open his eyes the angle of the light and the colors in the room confirmed that he was no longer in the hospital.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Well, forget the 'beauty' part. Maybe Rip Van Winkle is closer to the mark."

Sam sat up, blinking owlishly at his brother, looking all the world to Dean like he had when he was three years old and waking from a nap.

"Dean!" It was part question, part exclamation, and one hundred percent relief. "How…?" Sam's brain was racing to try to catch up with where he found himself.

"Relax. You're safe. Cass sprang you last night." He smiled at his brother, his own relief in having him back shining through.

Sam threw his legs off the bed, stood unsteadily and drew his big brother into a bear hug.

"Thank God," he breathed. "One more hour in that place and I really would have gone insane. Where are my clothes?" he asked as he released Dean and started searching the room with uncoordinated effort. "We need to get as far away from here as we can."

"Whoa, slow down there, Sparky," Dean made a grab for his brother as Sam stumbled. "I think maybe you should start circling for a landing before we hit the road. You want breakfast? Coffee?"

Slightly glazed, liquid hazel eyes turned on Dean.

"No, we can get coffee on the road. I just want to get out of here." Sam paused, thoughts fighting to put themselves into some semblance of order. "Wait. Do you even know where the Impala is?"

Dean slapped Sam on the shoulder, good-naturedly. "Of course I know where my baby is. Went and picked her up first. I know where my priorities lie! Okay, so if you're sure you're up to it, let's get out of here."

Sam was never as sure of anything in his life. He didn't even want to question what the hell had been going on yet, although he was sure he'd get around to that as soon as his head was clear. For now all he wanted was Chicago in the rear-view mirror as fast as possible and if they never came back here again it would be too soon.

The End.

Author's Notes:

Before anyone gets all riled up about historical facts being inaccurate, please bear in mind that Zachariah is responsible for this, not me! First bit is quoted directly, more or less, from the end of the episode, and there is a little bit later on between Dean and Zachariah you'll recognize, although I've changed some of it slightly to fit this story.

No Prius cars were harmed during the writing of this story. I actually like them, blame _Dean_ for the comments!

Of course I had to re-watch the episode "It's A Terrible Life" in order to get the background right for this story. I'd like to send a personal note to the Wardrobe department at Supernatural. Please dress Sam in Chino's ALL the time, I love the way they hang on his hips! And a big thank you to the Director, James L. Conway, and the DP, Serge Ladouceur, C.S.C., for the low camera angles on Sam in this ep! ;0) Watch carefully and you'll see what I mean.

Written for the Summer of Sam 2010 Challenge, as we all suffered through the 4 month torment that is the Summer Hellatus, and excitedly await the season 6 premiere. This one just took hold of me and wouldn't let go.

I have to thank the wonderful Sendintheklowns for volunteering and doing a great job as beta. She has been a busy girl, along with Faye Dartmouth, filling in with extra duties as well as coming up with the concept for the challenge. Thanks to both of you for letting me participate.

And thanks for sticking with me!


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